


It's Times Like These

by Wickedtruth



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Community: Sweet Charity, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-31
Updated: 2010-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-14 06:53:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wickedtruth/pseuds/Wickedtruth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're in the middle of a hunt, there's a small hurricane brewing outside and Dean's pretty sure he's having two different conversations every time he and Sam talk these days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Times Like These

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by Sosoru and Vampyreranger. Title from the Foo Fighters song of the same name.

As potential hunts go, it's not the strangest thing they've had to deal with; although a creature that looks like a horse in order to lure people to ride it so they’d get caught on the sticky skin of its back, before dragging them into the water to drown and consume them, leaving nothing behind but their livers, was certainly up there in the top twenty. Maybe even the top ten.

"So, a kelpie, then?"

Sam sighs and leans back, lifting his bottle of beer and drinking. His other hand makes a gesture that could be either dismissive or disgusted, or possibly both; it's kinda hard to tell sometimes. Dean waits to see if there'll be anything more, but it seems that Sam's done for now. Dean looks back down at the creased newspaper cutting, smoothing out the wrinkles with fingers already a little stained by the ink. He leans back too, wrapping both hands around his beer and rolling the condensation slick bottle between his hands.

"More like an Each Uisge. Though I have no idea what one would be doing in the Everglades." Sam rubs damp fingers across his forehead and Dean debates whether or not to tell him he's left himself with a dark smudge across frown lines that never quite seem to fade these days. In the end he reaches out and catches Sam's hand before he can pinch the bridge of his nose, another new habit.

Sam stares at him until Dean curls his fingers around his brother's wrist and turns their hands, palms upward. Sam watches him a second longer, then looks down, the frown smoothing out for a second until he gets it. Dean holds onto him for a second longer than he has to, then pulls his hand away and tips his head back, letting the _coolsour_ bite of the beer slide over his tongue.

He knows that Sam's watching him; he can see him over the bottle. The frown is back, but it's not as deep and there's something else, something _curious_ at the edge of Sam's expression that Dean's going to ignore. Finally Sam grabs a napkin from the table and dampens it with the moisture still gathering on his bottle and uses it to wipe away the mark. He raises an eyebrow at Dean and Dean nods in response to the unspoken question. The smudge is gone and Dean spares only the briefest second to wish that all their bruises and scars were so easily erased.

The bar is noisy and crowded but it still feels as though they're completely alone, apart from everything around them. Separated forever from the _normal_ people, the people going about their everyday lives, never knowing the things that live in the dark places, unseen and unrecognised. He always used to like that isolation; that sense of knowing things that other people didn't. It used to make him feel special, _needed_. It was what made it easier to bear the times when Dad would take off, or withdraw until even though he was in the same room as Dean, it felt as though he was a universe away. Now, he feels trapped by it. He used to think of it as a shield, some kind of bubble that kept everyone at arms length. Now it's as though there's two of them inside the shield, he and Sam, trying to occupy the same space that Dean did. It's uncomfortable and unsettling and it feels so right that it scares him more than anything he's ever hunted.

He has the uneasy feeling Sam knows exactly how he feels.

"Well, it can't be any stranger than chasing a Hippogriff through Knoxville." He watches Sam's hand as he rubs the remaining ink from his fingers.

Sam snorts. "True." He tosses the napkin onto the table and Dean knows he's gone back to watching. He can feel the weight of the stare and he wonders whether it would be better or worse if he knew why it makes him want to duck his head and hide. Hide the way he used to, before he realised that he could use his looks to divert people, to make them see what he wants them to. Sam sees what's really there, sees _him_ and it doesn't matter that it's a truth Dean has lived with for more than two decades; it still sends prickles of heat and goose bumps across his skin.

"At least we'll miss hurricane season."

"Yeah. Instead we'll have temperatures into the 90s and 100% humidity. And mosquitoes."

And cheap motels where the air conditioning does little more than circulate the warm, sticky air, and the 'fridge will whine and rattle all night.

"Time to break out the Hawaiian shirts then."

"What's scary is that I believe you actually would."

He shrugs, but he can't quite look Sam in the eye. Because he would. Because Sam knows him well enough to _know_ that he would. Because he doesn't understand why all of a sudden every time they talk, there seems to be two conversations going on. Because he can't quite catch the low murmur of words in the conversation they _aren't_ having, but he knows it's there, nonetheless.

He wonders how long they can keep ignoring it. He wonders how long _Sam_ will let them.

"As much as I live to embarrass you, even I have limits."

"Worried that looking like a tourist instead of a throwback to the 80's will cramp whatever passes for style in your world?"

"You wish." He looks up and Sam's staring intently at the bottle in his hands, thumbnail idly scraping at the soggy label, littering the table with scraps of damp paper like confetti. He doesn't remember when making comments about sexual frustration and beer bottle labels stopped being funny.

Sam snorts but he doesn't look up,doesn't stop picking at the label, methodical and focused and Dean never knows whether he's relieved or annoyed when he isn't the center of that attention. It's thrilling and scary to be the most important thing in someone else's world and sometimes, when he can't sleep he wonders if that's what it's always been like for Sam, or whether the fact that he's never known anything else means he doesn't even realizse the things Dean would do for him. If he realizses that there's only one thing Dean wouldn't do, the sense memory of a gun, cold and heavy in his hand and Sam's face, pleading and with no fucking idea what he was asking, making him shake with something that could have been fear or anger or ....

He tightens his grip on the bottle until he half expects to hear it crack. When he's taken a breath, and then another and another, he looks up and finds Sam watching him carefully. It's a look that he seems to see a lot these days, cautious, worried, curious, fond and Dean has no idea what it means, that strange blend of emotions. He can't help but think that it's linked to their not-conversation.

"You want to turn in, get an early start tomorrow?" Sam's voice doesn't match his expression, but Dean's getting used to that too.

"Yeah, might as well."

They leave the bottles on the table; Dean's with a couple of mouthfuls of beer left and Sam's completely denuded of its label. On the way out of the door they bump shoulders and Dean's never been more aware of that bubble around them than he is right now.

Later, when they're back at the motel, Dean in the bed by the door and Sam in the other, the room lit only by the weak moonlight slipping through the thin curtains, Dean stares at the ceiling, knowing that Sam's staring at the wall. He can feel this thing, whatever it is between them, like an elephant in the corner of the room. He can sense the atmosphere, at once strained and distant and also comfortable and familiar.

Everything seems to have a new layer of meaning and he can't shake the feeling that even Sam can't quite figure it out, nor the belief that he's in for a world of trouble when one or both of them finally do. He finally falls asleep a couple of hours before dawn, listening to Sam's steady breathing.

****

He lets Sam drive the first couple of hundred miles the next day, while he concentrates on not thinking at all. They stop twice, once for gas and once for food. They talk about the hunt and argue about the best way to tackle the Kelpie, or Each Uisge, or whatever the hell it is. And all the time, Dean feels the tickle of _something_ in the back of his head. There's still this sub-text going on, underlying everything.

He watches Sam watching him and now there's just this hint of speculation in the mix, and a thread of something cold and relentless wrapping around his heart because Sam's looking at him like he's a conundrum or an enigma or something, and Sam's finally figured out the first piece of the puzzle. Dean's seen that look often enough to know that nothing good ever comes of it. Not for him. Sam can't stop poking and prodding away, even when he doesn't like what he finds.

The next couple of hundred miles, Dean drives. He lets the steady vibrations of the car's engine untangle the knots his muscles have tied themselves in and he can almost ignore the glances that Sam throws his way at nerve janglingly irregular intervals. They stop once more for gas and then drive until they've left dusk several miles behind. Dean's eyes are tired and gritty, but Sam doesn't say anything when he passes motel after motel. He doesn't say anything when Dean finally turns off the highway and into the parking lot of generic motel, like a thousand others they've stayed in.

By the time he's got them signed in and is heading back with the key, Sam's got one bag over his shoulder and another in his hand and he's leaning against the car, head tilted back, watching the clouds drift across the moon with a faraway expression. Dean slows, almost reluctant to disturb Sam's silent contemplation, but Sam tilts his head down and meets Dean's eyes anyway and then it's Dean who's distracted by the warmth of the smile Sam gives him, bright and uncomplicated in a way Sam hasn't been since he learned to talk.

Dean has no idea what to say to that look, so he just grabs the other bags from the car and leads Sam to their room.

After they've argued over what to not watch on the ancient TV and showered, they spend another endless night, lying in the dark, listening to each other breathe. There's an itch under Dean's skin, making him want to reach out towards his brother, with words, with his hands, with everything that he has. Finally he turns his back on Sam and wraps his arms around himself. This time, he's still awake when the sun turns pink and then orange. He watches a thin ray of sunlight track across the threadbare carpet, until it climbs up the bed where Sam's sleeping. Sam is on his back, one arm flung out to his side, as if he were reaching out towards Dean, the other lying on his chest, over his heart. Right where Dean sometimes wants to rest his hand, just to feel the steady thump of Sam's heart, just to know...

He turns away again and doesn't move even when he hears Sam get up and move around.

****

They reach Florida by mid morning. They're passing Fort Myers by early afternoon. They eat a late lunch at Denny's. Sam glares at Dean's burger and fries from over his chicken salad, but that doesn't stop him from stealing fries from Dean's plate until Dean slaps his hand with a knife covered in ketchup. He sneers at the kicked-puppy look Sam gives him, then looks back at his plate when Sam begins to lick the sauce from the back of his hand.

Two and a half hours and one wrong turn later, they reach their destination. Dean is ready to swear that he can smell the salt tang of the ocean, despite the fact that they're still a few miles inland. Sam tells him he looks like a bloodhound, standing in the parking lot of a motel and sniffing the air. He grins even wider when Dean flips him off. He's still grinning when he comes back with the room. Dean makes sure to _accidentally_ catch him in the back of the knee with the heaviest bag as they walk into the room, crumpling Sam's leg and sending him stumbling. He's locked in the bathroom before Sam can get his balance back, though he can hear Sam's cursing through the thin walls.

It's like being kids again, except it isn't, because they weren't ever like _this_ when they were kids. Dean understands more than Sam will ever know about how stifling the regimen Dad forced on them was; he knows how it feels to want to break free, to escape that oppressive, pressure cooker atmosphere. He knows just how it feels to dream about walking away, leaving behind the cheap motels, the scent of blood and fear, the jittery adrenaline rush of a hunt and the stomach churning terror of a near miss. He knew and he also knew that of the two of them, he wasn't going to be the one who got a normal life.

The spray from the showerhead is just the right side of vicious and he spends several minutes watching the water spiralling down the plug, hair plastered to his head, tiny droplets catching and clinging to his eyelashes. The water tastes faintly metallic in a way that reminds him vaguely of the rich taste of blood. It's dirt he's washing away this time, but it's been blood often enough; his, Dad's, Sam's and he's always felt some nagging sense of loss, as if he's washing a part of himself, of them, away with the water.

When he tips his head back, cheap motel shampoo foaming weakly under his scrubbing fingers, he can hear the TV, a muted babble of sound that distracts him from the unsettling absence of noise in his own head.

He shaves without ever really seeing his reflection in the mirror. He concentrates on the patch of skin directly beneath the razor, the way the blade clears paths through the foam. The skin revealed by each stroke is smooth, clean, pink and _new_. He wonders what it would be like to be unveiled like that, stripped clean.

He leaves the short hairs clinging to the side of the basin and drops a wet towel on the bathroom floor. Another habit, something else he does because if he didn't, some indefinable, inexplicable balance somewhere would shift and he wouldn’t have any thing solid left to cling to anymore. Because if he didn't, Sam would want to know why and Dean wouldn’t have any answers for him. Answers have always been Sam's thing. Sam gets answers and Dean _does_ , whatever it takes.

The motel has thirty channels and Dean flips through all of them, twice, before giving up. The familiar restlessness squirms under his skin until he throws jeans, shirt and boots on, forgoing boxers and socks. He jangles the car keys in his hand and rests the other on the bathroom door while he tells Sam he's going for takeout. The shower stops and Sam shouts an order for chicken chow mein and kung pao chicken. And Dean would swear he could hear all the things they aren't saying if he just stood still and listened hard enough. He drives too fast and turns the volume on the car stereo up several notches past comfortable.

The wait for their order is endless and he bounces on the balls of his feet, humming under his breath; Metallica, Whitesnake, anything that comes to mind. He's not sure who's more relieved when the food is finally ready, but the people in the takeout place seem very glad to see the back of him.

Sam's on the bed by the window, dressed in t-shirt and boxers, hair curling damply around his face, one leg curled under him. He's concentrating on the laptop, ignoring the TV. Sam doesn't watch TV; he leaves it on for Dean.

Dean hands Sam his cartons and chopsticks, leaving the prawn crackers on the table between their beds. He stares at the TV, though he has no idea what he's watching and despite the fact that neither of them looks when reaching for crackers, they never reach out at the same time.

"Where do you want to start tomorrow?" Dean sees a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, Sam's hand reaching back to snag a cracker. Dean digs about in his carton for the last few bits of crispy chilli beef, the sweet, stickiness contrasting pleasantly with the tingle of the chillies.

"What do we have to go on?" He grabs a cracker, uses it to scoop up his special fried rice, eyes still on the TV. He hears Sam's soft sigh, the rustle of bed clothes and the sharp crack as he straightens a knee that's never quite been the same since Sam twisted it while tackling a Banshee that was trying to eat Dean's face.

The room is filled with dark reminders of their lives, their history. Sam's knee; the battered laptop that Sam's rebuilt at least twice; the gun on the nightstand and the knife under the pillow; Dad's battered journal on the Formica table. Everywhere you look, there's something.

Sometimes, Dean feels as though he's drowning in it, as though the darkness that he deals with has somehow seeped into his pores until there's no way out but dead and he's still not ready for that yet. He'd wanted Sam away from this, but even so, he'd known that Sam's normal life would never last; recognised it for the illusion it was, but he wanted it for Sam nevertheless.

"No-one is sure exactly where the last victim was taken from, but I've got details on where her liver was found." Sam's voice is soft in a way that makes Dean think of nights huddled under the sheets, together, reading by flashlight, legs tangled and elbowing each other; Sam doing his homework and Dean reading whatever he could get his hands on. His tone is light, like hazy sunshine on an autumn afternoon, lazy and slow. He knows that Sam's watching him again, waiting for something, something Dean can't name, not yet, maybe not ever.

"Jesus, this job just gets better and better. Makes me almost wish for a nice, simple harpy to chase down."

"Yeah, because that went so well the last time." Fear, anger, pride; so many things woven into Sam's tone, like ripples across the surface of a still pool, hiding a fierce and deadly undertow, strong enough to pull the unwary in and drown them. Some days, it's all Dean can do to keep his head above the water.

Dean shrugs, dislodging the rice he's carefully scraped up from the corner of the box from his chopsticks. He gives up on the rice, the effort just isn't worth the reward and isn't _that_ just the story of his life. "I didn't know there were three of them" Sam's fingers are wrapped so tightly around the cheap wooden chopsticks that Dean's certain he'll have splinters.

"It would probably have helped if you hadn't been standing in the middle of their nest, shouting like a lunatic." And Dean can hear this part of the other conversation all too clearly; knows that Sam thinks he should have known, that it's his job to give Dean the intel he needs to do the job. Sam's anger at himself for not knowing _everything_ , at Dean for getting injured or throwing himself into danger without a second thought has been like a third person in their relationship for more years than Dean wants to think about. For hunters of the supernatural, they sure carry around enough ghosts of their own.

There's nothing Dean can say that won't start another fight, not with Sam in this mood and Dean just doesn't have the energy or desire to get into it again with his brother. They've fought about this since Sam first started hunting and it hasn't changed a damn thing. Dean used to do it for fun, to piss Sam off. Then Sam left and suddenly it wasn't funny anymore, but he'd never quite managed to break the habit.

Eventually, Sam sighs and Dean can actually feel the moment Sam's attention shifts back to the laptop. He sets his empty takeout boxes on the bedside table and slides down the bed, one pillow under his shoulders, the other behind his head. He falls asleep to baseball on the TV and the scratch of Sam's pen as he takes notes.

His dreams are full of harpies and blood, and then water and the sound of Sam's voice. It's always Sam's voice, calling softly to him and laughing with him in his dreams, and screaming and crying in his nightmares. Most of his nightmares are full of fire and blood. He can't remember the last time he didn't see flames when he closed his eyes.

Waking up is hard. He can't remember what he was dreaming this time, but he knows it was good, sweet and strong. The smell of strong coffee finally drags him out of bed, groggy and gritty eyed. It's been so long since he slept a whole night that it feels as though his body has forgotten how to deal with all the rest.

Sam's still in front of the laptop, but this time he's dressed and sitting at the table. A large takeout cup of coffee sits beside him, milky and sweet, and a second cup waits opposite him, dark and bitter. Dean slumps in the other chair, pausing for a second when it creaks ominously under his weight. He and Sam share a look, both waiting to see if the chair is going to hold on for a few minutes more. When it settles with a faint squeak, Dean snags the coffee and Sam goes back to whatever he was looking at on the screen.

"Thanks for the coffee." Sam doesn't look up.

"No problem. I thought for a moment it wasn't going to work though. You were pretty comatose there." The undercurrent is still there, still trying to pull him in. It's not like Sam has any leeway to talk about not sleeping and keeping secrets.

"Even I need beauty sleep every so often." He chooses his words deliberately, knowing that Sam will drive a knife into any cracks that Dean leaves him and prise Dean open until he can figure out how he works. Even if it shatters Dean in the process.

"Yeah, that's true enough." He hears the 'why won't you talk to me' brand of frustration beneath the teasing and doesn't understand why Sam doesn't get it. They've never been about words. Words haven’t brought them anything but misunderstanding and trouble, yet still Sam puts such faith in them, as though the vowels and sounds can make things right, can give them back everything they've ever lost. Words have power, Dean knows that, but he's never figured out how to wield those double-edged swords without leaving them both with more scars that only they can see.

"Think we should go check out the scene or go talk to the cops first?" Living with Sam, he's learned to build walls as fast as he can. If only he could persuade Sam to stop knocking them down as fast as he repairs them.

"Let's check the site out first, get an idea of the terrain. There's a tropical storm heading this way and if it doesn't change course, it'll hit us sometime in the next 48 hours. We won't be able to hunt or do anything much if it settles in."

"Oh, joy." He'd like to blame the oppressive feel of the air on the approaching storm, but it's been lying between them for several thousand miles, a handful of years and more heartaches than Dean thought two people could possibly stand and still be breathing. Nothing the weather can throw at them could get under his skin like this.

He stands and the chair groans in relief. They both watch it for a second; just in case it does something more than merely make noise. When nothing happens, Dean pointedly doesn't notice the way Sam watches him as he moves across the room and into the bathroom.

Sam drives them to the spot where the last victim's liver was found and _Jesus_ , she was only sixteen years old. Not even half his age but every single one of the years that he has that she'll never get feels like a mountain on his shoulders.

The ground is soft and swampy beneath their feet and there's no way to tell what's solid ground and what isn't. The mud is sticky and mosquitoes buzz past their ears. There are a few tattered bits of police tape clinging forlornly to whatever they were wrapped around. Dean doesn't know why they bothered to come out here, because there's nothing that gives them any clues. The creature could be laying low under the water, or it could be miles away. There's no discernible pattern to the disappearances, no link between where the victims were taken and where their organs turned up.

Sam pokes about at the water's edge and Dean keeps one eye on him and one hand near his gun. They loaded up with the special ammo this morning. The Each Uisge, if that's what this is, is a fairy creature and so Dean's gun carries iron bullets and Sam's has silver. When Sam has finally finished proding the clumps of reeds, they walk back to the car. It's only lunchtime, but the sky is already darkening and Dean can feel the heavy, sultry air that precedes a storm settling in.

Dean drives back to the town, feeling as though he's trying to outrun the ominous clouds in the rear view mirror. When they get back to civilization, they try their luck with the police. Either the local cops should be nominated for Oscars, or they really don't know a damned thing, because talking to them wastes two hours that Dean's never going to get back again.

In the end they give up and grab lunch. Sam coughs when he takes the first bite of his beef sandwich and discovers that what he thought was butter is, in fact, horseradish hot enough to make his nose run and his eyes water. Dean picks the limp lettuce out of his BLT and resists the urge to flick the soggy bits at Sam.

"Any idea how to even find this thing?" Warm, crisp bacon contrasts nicely with the soft, fleshy tomato and the cool, creamy mayo. He's never liked lettuce, but he's discovered that it's often easier to take the sandwich the way it comes and remove the lettuce than ask for it without. Over the years, he's had it without tomato, mayo and once without bacon _or_ tomato.

Sam gulps water, trying to cool the fire in his mouth and when he speaks, his voice is slightly hoarse, as though he's been shouting. "Not really. I want to go back over the previous deaths, plot them on a map, see if that shows anything."

Dean looks out the window. The wind is starting to pick up and the whole sky is dark and tinged with the unsettling yellow hue that always heralds a spectacular storm. "Better hurry then, because that storm looks like it's almost here already."

"Yeah. Guess when that hits we'll just have to wait it out." There's just a hint of something wistful in Sam's voice but when Dean looks at him, Sam's carefully pulling his sandwich apart and scraping the excess horseradish off.

"Well, you go see if you can figure out how to track it and I'll go talk to family and friends, see if they know something that might help."

"We could do that together."

"Storm's coming; we haven't got much time. Makes more sense to split up."

"It's not likely to be out hunting people while there's a major storm raging." Sam rebuilds his sandwich and takes a bite, cautiously. Normally Sam can't wait to go his own way, do his own thing. The babble of that underground conversation tugs at Dean's consciousness again. There's something Sam isn't saying, at least, he's not saying it with words, and that's so unlike Sam that Dean really doesn't know how to deal with it. So he does what he usually does; ignores it.

"Maybe not, but the more we can figure out now, the quicker we can hunt it once the weather clears. _Before_ it has a chance to eat anyone else."

"Fine." That's Sam's petulant tone and Dean has the feeling that he's missed something somewhere because he can get under Sam's skin even when he's not really trying, but he really has no idea what he's done this time. Once he'd have pushed and needled Sam until he either got over it or exploded and told Dean what the problem was. But this Sam reminds Dean of nothing so much as the approaching storm; an unfocused force of nature and this is one tempest that he doesn't feel the desire to meet head on.

When he leaves their room minutes later, Sam's already hunched over the laptop, eyes glued deliberately to the screen.

Outside, the wind is strong enough to lift an empty drink cup and send it skittering down the street. Dean can feel the slow build of static in the air. His skin prickles with it, and it makes him itch with the need to do something to slough off the feeling of being restricted, of being suffocated. The idea of being cooped up in the motel room with Sam, waiting out the storm, makes something squirm and twist in his guts, too much like excitement and too close to fear.

He spends his time bouncing around the town. The police are tight lipped and nervous. There are murmurs about a serial killer on the loose from the younger officers, but the sheriff’s eyes are haunted and Dean’s certain he knows more than he’s willing to tell. He also knows that nothing he says is going to prise it out of the man.

The last victim’s friends and family have nothing to tell. They don’t know why Katie was out in the ‘glades. Nevertheless, he leaves her friends and sister with his number, just in case they think of anything. He’s drained and bone tired by the time he’s done. It doesn’t matter how many times he’s had to speak to those who have lost loved ones, their grief and confusion always calls to his and stirs up memories he spends most of his waking hours trying to bury ever deeper.

When he gets back to the motel, the sky is black and full of heavy clouds. The storm is so close he can almost smell the rain in the air and taste the ozone from the lightning. The wind has dropped, but he knows that this is only a brief lull. It’ll pick up again and by the early hours of the morning, they’ll be in the thick of the worst of it.

He’s already packed as many of their weapons and gear as he can into a new bag he’s bought for the specific purpose, and parks the car against the side of the building, as far away as possible from tree branches and hanging signs and anything that might cause serious damage. He’s resigned to there being some minor damage and when he leaves the car, he can’t help but run his hand over the sleek finish in apology. He’s glad that Sam isn’t here to see it, because otherwise he’d make some crack about Dean needing to get a room or look at Dean with that considering, slow gaze that makes Dean want to squirm in a way he didn’t even as an awkward boy, halfway between being a child and a teenager and wearing neither well.

He hefts the bag with their gear and tucks the grocery bag under his other arm. If he has to wait out the weather stuck in a tiny motel room, he’s damned if he’s doing it without beer and snacks.

Sam’s still at the table, laptop open and casting a slightly unsettling glow across his face. The curtains on the window are open, but it’s dark outside and most of the room is in shadow. Sam’s leaning back in the chair, staring at the screen, fingers tapping the pen held loosely between his fingers on the table. He doesn’t seem to notice Dean at first and there’s something shadowed in his almost too calm expression that starts a chain reaction of cold shivers in Dean. Then he blinks and looks at Dean like he appeared out of thin air.

Dean has to stop himself from jumping when Sam gets up and takes the bag of groceries from him. He dumps the bag on the floor between their beds and listens to Sam putting the beer in the fridge and rooting around to see what else Dean has bought, knowing that Dean will have bought Sam’s favourites.

He leaves Sam to it and throws himself on the bed, reaching for the TV remote. He can feel Sam looking at him every so often; can _feel_ the quick glances that come his way. He’s always been aware of Sam, known where he was and when he was looking at Dean, but lately it’s been stronger than ever, to the point where he can almost tell if Sam’s in a room before he enters it. He’s tried to pin down a reason for this increased awareness, but there’s nothing. No momentous, life-changing event that he can recall.

Thirty channels and not a damned thing to watch. Once Dean might have suggested breaking the bank and paying for the soft core porn that places like this offer, but they could be stuck in this room for some time and that idea doesn’t seem as amusing as it once did.

Sam finally finishes investigating Dean’s purchases and walks to the other bed, dropping a beer on to Dean’s stomach as he passes, another bottle in his own hand and a bag of chips dangling from his fingers.

”Find anything?”

“I think the sheriff knows more than he was prepared to admit to, but nothing concrete, nothing that might actually help us. You?”

“Nothing. If there’s a pattern, I can’t find it.” Dean can appreciate that feeling. He’s been trying to find a pattern for the way things are changing between them for weeks. Every time he thinks he’s found it, it slips away, like mist and shadow.

A sudden flash of lightning rips across the sky outside. Dean counts the seconds under his breath, the whisper of breath from the other bed confirming that Sam is doing the same. He gets to 20 before the thunder rumbles through the air. Rain is now hitting the window and the wind is whistling through the gap under the door of their room. It almost feels as though they’re cut off from the rest of the world, as though it’s only the two of them left, and that thought leaves him with a hot, desperate sense of anticipation.

Eventually they settle on watching some crappy sci-fi B-movie, propped up on pillows, drinking the beer and trading the chips back and forth.

The time between the lightning and the thunder has fallen to 12 seconds when Dean’s phone starts ringing. He has to scramble off the bed and grab his jacket off the back of the chair, struggling to get it out of his pocket before voicemail kicks in.

He doesn’t recognise the number, but answers it anyway, because there are a lot of people out there with his number and anyways he can’t remember the number to pick up his voicemail at the moment.

Sam’s moved to sit on the side of his bed, watching Dean intently. Dean fidgets and has to turn away from the scrutiny because it makes it hard to concentrate on the call. It’s Katie’s best friend. Katie’s sister, Eleanor, is missing and the last time anyone saw her, she was heading towards the ‘glades before the storm started. He reassures her, tells her that he’ll go check it out when she tells him that the police won’t do anything until the storm has passed. But inside he has a really bad feeling about this, and there’s that little kick of guilt that he always gets when he thinks someone else is going to die because he didn’t figure it out fast enough. Eleanor is 12 and worshipped her older sister in a way that Dean found devastatingly familiar. She’d said something about finding the friendly horse Katie had mentioned to her before she’d died.

When he ends the call, he turns around to find Sam standing, his jacket already on, a flashlight in one hand and a gun in the other. Dean doesn’t look him in the eye, just shrugs his own jacket on and checks to make sure the gun’s fully loaded before grabbing another flashlight and digging the car keys out of his jeans pocket.

They jog to the car, a distance that would usually take less than 2 minutes to walk, but soaks them almost to the skin by the time they get there. Small branches and all sorts of debris litters the ground, picked up every so often by a little twist of wind. The lightning crackles, highlighting the underside of the heavy clouds, hanging threateningly over them. He forgets to count this time though and the clap of thunder makes him jump, loud and close by. They scramble into the car and drip all over the leather interior.

It feels like it takes them forever to drive to the spot where Katie’s liver was found because the rain is getting heavier and heavier, the car is being pelted with god knows what and Dean can barely see 10 feet in front of him. He slows down through the smaller puddles and gentles the car carefully through the large ones.

“If this keeps up, we’re not going to be able to get the car back down that road.”

“I know, Sam.” He doesn’t bother saying that they’ve got no choice, that they’ve got to go forward anyway, because he doesn’t have the concentration to spare to have that argument with Sam again.

“OK.” Just like that. No argument, no pointed comments about Dean’s mental faculties. As if he’d just been going through the motions. But his tone isn’t resigned and angry. In all honesty, Dean truthfully doesn’t know _what_ that tone means and he’s made a careful study of every one of Sam’s voices over the years.

Eventually, they can’t risk taking the car any further and they leave it in the middle of the road, certain that no one is going to be driving out here in this weather. The ground beneath their feet is swampy and slick and they both stumble more than once.

It’s a shock when Dean realizes that even if they can find the location where Katie’s liver was found, if her sister isn’t there, they have no way of knowing where she is, and next to no chance of finding her. It doesn’t matter though, he’d still be out here, looking.

Sam grabs his arm suddenly, making him start. He points over to his left. The wind is too fierce and the rain too heavy for them to be able to talk, so Dean just brushes his hair back, blinks water from his eyes, and follows Sam. He thinks Sam must have been a bloodhound in a former life, because he leads them straight to the right place. There's a voice in the back of Dean's head, telling him that it can't be this simple, that something bad is going to happen, any second now, because their luck just doesn't run this way.

Eleanor is petting the big black horse whose eyes burn red in the light of their flashlights. If this were a movie rather than real life, this would be the moment when the whole scene is lit by lightning. Truth is always less photogenic.

Sam begins moving to the left, trying to circle around and get between the Each Uisge and the water behind it. Dean walks forward. He can’t tell if the girls knows they are there yet and there’s no point calling to her because she’d never hear it. The Uisge shifts restlessly, as if it senses their intent and Dean slowly slips his gun from the small of his back, thumbing the safety off. He doesn’t want to shoot while Eleanor is so close to the creature, but he will if it comes down to a choice between the risk of hitting her and letting the thing drag her down into the water so it can consume her.

When the creature suddenly drops its front legs and nuzzles the girl, Dean’s blood runs cold. He’s too far away to get to Eleanor before she swings a leg over the thing and settles onto its back and he knows he’s shouting but he can’t even hear himself over the full fury of the storm.

The creature stands back up and turns suddenly, starting to trot towards the water. Dean aims at the thing’s flank, as far away from the girl as he can and he _knows_ that Sam’s doing the same. He doesn’t hear the retorts of their guns, but he sees the bright muzzle flash in the darkness, he and Sam firing at damn near the same time, over and over.

The Uisge rears up suddenly and lets out a scream that can be heard even over the storm. It’s a noise that no person could make and yet there’s something human about it. It chills Dean in a way that the rain couldn’t.

The thing takes off suddenly, rushing past Sam, who only just gets out of the way in time to avoid being trampled. Dean doesn’t even pause to think. He lets pure instinct take over and chases the beast as it disappears beneath the dark, churning water.

Later, when he thinks back, he has no clear memory of this period of time. He has no idea how long he was in the water, or how he managed to catch a hold of the Each Uisge’s tail. He remembers struggling to pull the girl from the thing’s back, trying to pull her free of the sticky skin. He can clearly feel, even hours later, the way her fingers dug into his arms, clinging to him. He knows he shared her terror and her desperation.

How he finally managed it and how they both ended up back on solid ground, he has no idea. He thinks Sam must have dragged them both out of the water.

He knows that he let Eleanor go, felt her coughing next to him. Then he opened his eyes and all he could see was Sam, hands fisted in Dean’s shirt, eyes huge and wide and terrified down to his soul. His face is lit from beneath and Dean guesses that he’s dropped the flashlight in his rescue attempt.

Dean manages to make his arm work well enough to reach up, intending to touch Sam, to reassure him, to reassure them both. He means to clap Sam’s shoulder, but he misses by a mile and instead his hand lands on Sam’s face. It doesn’t feel odd to him, even when Sam turns into the touch, eyes half closed, lips parted and breath warm against Dean’s skin. It’s only when Sam turns back and leans forward that Dean wonders what the hell is going on. But it’s like the babble of their unspoken conversation suddenly became audible, like turning the volume up on a radio.

It’s both shocking and familiar when Sam braces himself with a hand next to Dean’s head and kisses him. It’s as delicate as a snowflake and as wild as the storm that’s still venting its fury around them.

Dean doesn’t remember ever wanting this. He doesn’t remember ever _not_ wanting this. He knows they’re already too close to hell to be doing this, but there’s nothing on this earth that will make him stop. He knows that whatever else happens, by the time the morning arrives they’re going to be closer than brothers, though the physical act is only going to cement the connection that’s been there all the time, bubbling away, coloring every single one of their interactions. It’s so obvious now that Dean doesn’t understand how he could have ever have missed it.

Sam finally pulls away, resting his forehead against Dean’s. They stay like that for a long time, too shattered to move. It’s only when Dean hears Eleanor coughing that he realizes the worst of the storm seems to have passed, although whether it’s truly gone or whether they’re just in the eye, he has no idea.

He wraps a hand around the back of Sam’s neck and squeezes gently. Sam opens his eyes and looks at him. They are wet, muddy, exhausted, and battered and Dean doesn’t care. Sam drags himself to his feet and pulls Dean up with him, the curl of his fingers around Dean’s strangely intimate, though the touch lasts for no more than a couple of seconds.

Sam picks Eleanor up, carrying her as though she’s almost weightless and they trudge back to the car.

There are blankets in the trunk still and Dean wraps the girl up in one, letting her curl into the back seat of the car. He and Sam strip out of as many clothes as they can, drying themselves as much as possible with the blankets. They don’t talk on the drive back, which Dean manages to accomplish without really knowing how he does it. He’s far too aware of Sam next to him, of the things they’re going to do when they get dry and warm. He wants to think that he didn’t see this coming, but he did, he just didn’t understand it. He’s fairly certain that Sam had figured it out though. Just this once though, he doesn’t mind lagging behind Sam.

They return Eleanor to her parents telling them that they found her out in the storm. Eleanor murmurs sleepily about the horse but subsides soon enough. Her parents look ready to offer Dean and Sam the roof over their heads for preventing them from having to bury another daughter and Dean feels almost embarrassed by their thanks. They finally manage to leave and head back to the motel. Dean’s skin is prickling again, but this time he knows why and he welcomes it, accepts the slow burn of anticipation that curls under his ribcage and squirms in his stomach.

He’s always loved Sam; from the moment he first laid eyes on his baby brother. He thinks that’s why he didn’t see what was between them for what it was. He was so used to loving Sam that when that love shifted, became just another kind of love, he couldn’t see it at first. He sees it now though. He didn’t realize that he was falling in love with his brother because he wasn’t expecting it.

When Sam reaches out a hand and rests it on Dean’s thigh, hot against the wet denim, it’s a promise and a pledge and an invitation. It’s all the things Dean’s been looking for without realising that they were right under his nose all the time.

The storm seems to have moved on, and the night sky is clear and bright around them as they pull into the parking lot of the motel. Dean can see a couple of broken windows and some other minor damage, nothing serious, but their room appears untouched. Sam takes the room key from Dean's hand, opening the door and walking inside. Dean follows and barely gets the door closed before Sam's pressing him gently back against the wood, hands cupping Dean's face, every emotion there for Dean to read. He understands now what he was seeing before, all the looks that he couldn't figure out. Everything makes sense now, like the last piece of a puzzle falling into place.

Dean hooks his fingers into the belt loops of Sam's jeans and pulls him closer, watching as his brother's eyes close as he leans closer. He doesn't close his eyes, even when Sam's face is a pale blur, and his body is pressing against the whole length of Dean's body. They're both aroused, hot and hard under clothes stiff with mud and god knows what else, but there's no sense of urgency, no need to rush. Dean feels as though they're in the eye of their own storm. The endless whispers at the back of his mind that had been plaguing him for the last few weeks have fallen silent and all he can hear now is the pulse of his own heart.

He follows willingly when Sam pulls away and grabs his hand, leading him across the room, almost as if he's worried that Dean's going to tell him to stop. They shouldn't be doing this, but he wants it so much that he aches with it and he's given so much, asked for so little, that he tells himself he can have this, he's earned it, surely.

They leave a trail of clothes, guns, boots and dirt across the floor, trading kisses and trying to strip each other as they move. It's awkward and both of them nearly end up flat on their faces on the floor at different times, but it doesn't slow them down.

Sam drops to the bed, pulling Dean with him, until Dean's straddling his thighs. Dean slides a hand into Sam's hair, dragging his head to the side and licking a line up the side of Sam's throat. Sam shivers and his fingers tighten on Dean's back, his ass. When Dean scrapes his teeth back down, biting and sucking at the base of Sam's neck, Sam gasps, clutching hard enough to leave bruises and Dean's never wanted to mark and be marked as much as he does at this moment. His hips are rocking against Sam, the sweet burn of friction making him pant and bite at Sam's mouth. He can feel Sam's hips flexing beneath him, trying to catch his rhythm, trying to find the right tempo to get them both off.

The hand that squirms into the space between them and wraps around both their cocks leaves him shuddering. Sam's hand is huge and applies just the right amount of pressure. He doesn't stroke, just curls his fingers around them. Dean _knows_ that this isn't the first time Sam's done this, and while he's not exactly a virgin either the thought drives his hips harder, caught between arousal and jealousy.

Sam is leaning on one elbow, head tipped back. His skin is flushed and they're both sweating. There's a bruise already staining the skin of his throat. Dean's only vaguely aware that he's growling under his breath; nonsense about ownership and obsession and love. Sam's trembling and his face screws up in an expression Dean would take for pain but for the fact that Sam's coming, body wracked with spasms, semen slicking his hand and Dean's cock. Jesus _fuck_ Dean's stomach clenches hard at the thought and the way Sam is whispering his name, broken and desperate and content.

It's not the most intense or the longest orgasm he's ever had, but he's never felt so stripped to the bone as he does now, Sam's eyes watching his face, catching every expression that Dean can't hide. When it's over, Sam drops back to lie on the bed, his non sticky hand wrapping around the back of Dean's neck and pulling him down for a long, slow kiss.

Later, when Dean's still slightly damp boxers have been sacrificed to clean them up and they've turned the lights out, they crawl back into the bed farthest from the door. Dean thinks he should feel vulnerable, cracked open and exposed, but he's too tired, too sated and too happy to care.

Sam's on his side, facing Dean, one hand resting on Dean's chest, thigh pressed against Dean's hip. He's not said a word, but Dean knows the words are there, pressing against Sam's lips and he knows how hard it is for Sam to bite them back. He recognizes it for what it is, an offering, a promise. How can he not offer Sam something in return?

"I didn't know. I never realised..." He doesn't know how he didn't see it, now, but he didn't.

"Yes you did. You just didn't see it for what it was." Sam's voice is quiet and his hand shifts until it rests over Dean's heart.

"You did."

"Yeah. Only recently though. Took me a while to figure it out."

"Would you... would you have said anything, if I hadn't got it?"

There's a long pause and for a while, Dean doesn't think Sam will answer and he tries not to think about what that means.

When Sam does finally speak, his voice is cautious. "Probably not. I think you had to see it, to realize it for yourself."

"Yeah. And you're OK with this?" He can hear the desperation in his own voice, but he just can't hide it.

"Yeah, I am."

"Really?"

"I've had time to get used to the idea. I mean, we've been everything else to each other over the years, why not this?" Sam pauses, shifts a little closer. "Are you OK with this, us?"

"If it's what you want, yeah." He can feel Sam tense beside him and belatedly realizes how that sounds. It's not what he meant, though. He grabs Sam's hand before he can pull it away from Dean's chest. "Sam. I do want this. God help us both, but I do. Now shut up and let me get some sleep."

Sam snorts but he settles down against Dean, body relaxed and warm. Dean does want this, wants this so much it scares him. It won't be easy but it'll be worth it, despite the fact he knows that they'll fight as much as ever, that they'll hurt each other intentionally and by accident. They'll be alright, in the end, because Sam's his and he's Sam's and God help anyone who messes with that.


End file.
